


that one where they get the permanent elixir (the second time)

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bobby's Panic Room, Codependent Winchesters, F/M, Gender Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Guilty Dean, M/M, Magic, Obedience, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean swore to find a way to get Sam's soul back. When the witch can't help, he goes to Death. And when he completes Death's task, when Sam's re-souled and re-femaled, he takes her to the safest place he knows -- and waits for her to wake up. It doesn't matter what she comes back like, just as long as she comes back. </p><p>(aka, Dean still doesn't call Natalie by name, Death learns that Dean and Sam really will do anything for each other -- soul or no soul -- and Bobby sometimes repeats insults when he's genuinely flabbergasted.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where they get the permanent elixir (the second time)

Dean's not sure how he feels going back to that witch, especially with Sam all -- de-souled or whatever's happened to him, but the few times they've gone to her before it's turned out all right, so they might as well. He doesn't like it, though, knows that much and makes it crystal clear. 

Sam sighs. "I know," he says, for the hundredth time. "And I will tell you why this is the best option again if you want me to. But you know I'm right and we're heading in her direction anyway, so what are you actually upset about?" 

He sounds disinterested, clinical, like he couldn't actually care less. It hurts Dean to know that if he brushed Sam off, Sam would probably leave it alone or tell Dean that he needs to know because it might affect their hunting partnership or whatever. _His_ Sam would turn the puppy-dog eyes on, would pull the sibling card, would so studiously _not_ pull the hell card that he'd be, in effect, pulling the hell card. 

Dean aches to have his brother -- his sister -- his Sam back, whatever form. 

"You look like my brother," Dean says, blunt, "but you sure as -- but you don't feel like him. There's nothing of Sam in you." It nearly tears Dean in half to say; Sam merely cocks his head to the side and thinks it over. "And I mean, if she can't fix --" _you_ "--this, then I'll get used to it, but it's not gonna be easy, man." Dean glances over, sees Sam watching him, shivers a little at that sight: lean, hungry, half intelligent cunning, half animal instinct. "When I got back from hell, we stayed in bed for three days straight. I don't even wanna touch you right now. And I'm sure that doesn't bother you, but it bothers me." 

"It should bother me," Sam says, soft, as he looks out the front window again. "If I was your Sam, hearing that would hurt, I think. But to me, right now, it just -- makes sense. I can't blame you for something that makes sense." 

Dean grits his teeth. He drives a little faster. 

//

Dean hates having this Sam behind him so when the witch opens the door, Sam's at his side, right in Dean's peripheral vision. She smiles when she sees Dean but the instant her eyes land on Sam, she flinches, pales, and steps back, all at once. Dean's got one hand on his gun, one hand on Sam, at the same time Sam holds both of his hands up in the classic 'I'm unarmed, I'm not here to hurt anyone' pose. 

"Can you fix him?" Dean asks. 

"No," she breathes. "We work _with_ the soul, Dean. There's _nothing_ in it." 

It. The witch has always referred to Sam with feminine pronouns before, always, no matter the body Sam was in. It. No soul. She doesn't consider Sam human without a soul. _It_. 

Well. At least Sam was right about that being the problem.

"Can you make him female again?" Dean asks. 

"Can I -- no, Dean," she says. Dean hates it when she says his name. "What part of _we work with the soul_ do you not understand? There's nothing there for me to work with." She swallows, takes a deep breath as if she's steeling herself. She steps forward -- slightly to the side, closer to Dean -- and puts a hand on Dean's arm. "You do realise: that's not your sister, Dean. That's no better than a robot dressed in your sister's skin." 

Dean bites his tongue, resists the urge to shake the witch off. He's going to have scrub twice as hard to get the feeling of her touch off of him. He's never understood how Sam's gotten along with her so well. 

"It's Sam's body," Dean says. "It's Sam. And I _will_ get his soul back. When I do, will you do the spell for us?" 

The witch looks at him, thoughtfully, though her eyes flick to the side every so often, as if she doesn't want to lose sight of Sam. "Yes," she says. "I owe your sister that much at the very least." 

Dean elbows Sam, says, "Why don't you go wait in the car. I just got something I need to ask before we leave." 

Sam does without question, an instant response to Dean's suggestion, and as Sam's walking away, the witch says, "It's very obedient. Did you train that into it?" 

"Sam said something about using me as a guide or an -- an anchor," Dean says, resisting the urge to hiss at the way the witch is referring to his brother. He presses a hand over his face, instead, makes sure Sam's in the car before he looks at her, asks, "Is there a way to -- with the elixir, could you make it so the pain -- so Sam doesn't feel it?" 

"So you do instead?" she asks. "It's a noble sentiment, Dean, truly, but -- no. The price has to be paid by the one reaping the benefits. And before you say anything," she adds, quickly, "I know you reap benefits. But it's not your dysphoria. It's not your horror and shame and disgust and longing and discomfort and need and want and desire. If Sam wants all of those things to end, then she needs to travel the path herself." 

Dean takes that, lets out a breath from between his teeth, nods. "Okay," he says. "I just had to -- just thought I'd check." 

//

"You know," Death says, sliding the ring back onto his finger, speaking to Dean though he's not looking at Dean. It's a good thing, too; Dean's not sure he can stand to have anyone's eyes on him right now, not after the things he's done in the last twenty-four hours. "I've always heard that you and Sam would do just about anything for each other, up to and including damning the world, and I was even mildly convinced of it when you came looking for this ring before. But now I understand that you'll kill innocent little girls if it's in Sam's name. That you will, in fact, reap happy couples, whole families, infants -- good people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time." 

Dean feels the urge to vomit. He can't meet Death's eyes, can feel Tessa behind him, watching. "Yeah," he bites out. "And?" 

Death steps closer; Dean can feel the chill seeping out of the being's frame, the hairs on his arms and neck standing on end in the presence of something that can only be described as _nothingness_. "Look at me, Dean," Death orders. Dean obeys, unable not to, and Death is looking at him with fondness, with sadness. "Sam would do the same for you -- of that, I'm sure. And you have given me a great gift, these past twenty-four hours. So I will give back your sister's soul with this warning: no matter how strong Sam is, the soul is an infinitely fragile creation. One hour, Dean." 

With that, Death is gone, Tessa is gone, the feeling of being disconnected and separated from reality -- a part of it but apart from it -- is gone. Dean puts his hand on his chest, over his heart, to feel it beat. He stumbles out of the abandoned house he ended up in, ignores the dead teenagers -- fuck, he _reaped_ them, _he_ did it -- and makes his way back to the motel. 

\--

Sam's waiting for him, of course; Dean told him to stay in the room and if there's one thing Sam's been, it's obedient. Dean's hated that but at least it's come in useful. 

"Shit," Dean says, once he realises. "Did you eat?" 

Sam shrugs one shoulder. "I didn't leave," is all he says, an answer in itself. There were a couple pieces of pizza leftover, maybe one or two protein bars, but nothing substantial, and Dean's been gone for just over a day. "What happened?" 

Dean pushes the guilt to one side -- more than enough time to deal with that later; he'll add it to the pile -- and tugs a chair over, sits down across from Sam, reaches out and puts his hands on Sam's knees. "We have forty-five minutes," he says, "and then Death will give you your soul back. I don't -- it might hurt, Sam. You might not be the same afterwards." 

"But you want me to do this," Sam says. 

"I think it's worth the risk, yeah," Dean says. 

Sam gives Dean a lopsided smile, though it's just muscle memory, really, no emotion behind it. "Then we'll do it. But we should probably go somewhere else, right? Just in case?" 

Dean searches Sam's eyes, finds nothing. "Yeah," he says, and pats Sam's knee. "I'll even let you drive." 

\--

Thankfully, they were in a pretty small town to begin with. It only takes ten minutes to get beyond the borders and then some; Sam hits the gas once they're on the state highway and the Impala roars under his touch. Neither of them say anything for a while. Dean's got the faces of those he reaped running on a loop in his mind and Sam's -- fuck, who knows what the hell Sam's thinking. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, though, enough for Dean to see white knuckles and bloodless fingers. 

"It's gonna be okay, Sam," Dean says into the silence. Sam jumps, the Impala stutters to the left, just a little. Sam doesn't look at him. "Whatever happens, you're gonna be fine. You're gonna be you again." 

"What if it kills me?" Sam asks. "What if this was the best I could've been -- the only way I could be alive and out of the Cage -- and you couldn't accept it and it kills me?" 

Dean swallows, looks out of the window and sees Sam's reflection, rather than the dark expanse of fields standing still as they fly past. "Then I'll bring you back and we'll try again." 

Sam gives that some thought, checks the time and pulls off the road, lets the car idle for a few seconds before he turns it off. The headlights are still on. 

"Have you ever thought that maybe our family refusing to let each other stay dead is causing more trouble than it's really worth?" Sam asks. "Mom makes a deal to bring Dad back, which ends up with her dying and me being fed demon blood. Dad dies to bring you back, you sell your soul to bring me back, you go to hell and break the first seal, I kill Lilith and free Lucifer, now you're making bargains with Death. I know everyone was always spouting shit about destiny and whatever, but." Sam stops there, shakes his head. 

"C'mon," Dean says. "You're not getting re-souled in the car." 

\--

By the time they get out, are uncomfortably standing side-by-side on the grass, the air's cold and getting colder by the second. Dean can see his breath. Sam's itching for a weapon, all of his instincts must be screaming at him, but his feet are planted; Dean's proud of him. 

There's a prickling between Dean's shoulder blades. He turns around, meets Death's amused smile for a second before he's drawn to a vial in Death's right hand. The vial's glass, a metallic stopper, maybe copper, and there's something inside shining with brilliant radiance -- but cracked, pock-marked, bleeding holes of something sharp and screeching. 

"Your soul, Sam," Death says. Dean tears his eyes away from the -- the absolute sheer stunning beauty that is everything about Sam that Dean loves and looks at his brother. Sam's staring at it as well but his eyes aren't hungry, aren't calculating, aren't dispassionate or curious or any one of the expressions Dean's come to know so well over the past few weeks. 

They're wide with fascination and fear. 

"It's -- I won't survive, will I," Sam says -- says, not asks. 

"I have given you every possible advantage," Death says, "but souls aren't meant to be treated the way yours has been. Cracks can be dealt with, even the occasional pitting, but the trauma yours has gone through is far too much for any human to handle." 

Dean's about to speak, to say something, this was _not_ part of the deal, but Sam puts his fingertips on Dean's arm, just a little brush, and it's so his-Sam that Dean stops, content for now to wait. 

"I don't know if my soul would consider the advantages worth it," Sam says, eyes narrowed as he studies his own soul. "You've left traces of Azazel's blood and Lucifer's Grace. More than just traces."

"Along with a smidge of Abaddon's blood and a little bit from every demon you've ever tasted or been possessed by," Death says. "As well as a hint of Michael's Grace and Castiel's Grace and every touch from every angel, Anna to Zachariah. You are something a slight bit more than human though you do, Sam, remain human where it counts. However," and Dean gets chills hearing that word, hearing the amusement drop from Death's voice. "There is still a price to be paid." 

Sam nods, looks at Death. "If I make it through alive, then I'll have the memories. Will they drive me crazy?" 

"It's a strong possibility," Death says. "I can create a wall -- if you want -- to block off the memories of the Cage. But even that won't last forever." 

Dean's too caught it up in looking at his brother's soul and turning Death's words over and over in his mind to keep up; it takes a couple seconds for him to realise that the conversation has paused. He looks at Sam, sees Sam looking at him, waiting. "Dude," Dean says. "Your soul, your mind. As long as you're -- y'know, then it's your choice." 

Sam raises an eyebrow. "It would make more sense to do it now and get it over with," he says. "Otherwise, who knows; it could happen in the middle of a hunt, or while I'm driving, we'd never know. On the other hand, the likelihood that it makes me insane is very high; it might be better to wait until the last possible minute before you have to have me committed or put down." 

"Put -- no," Dean says. " _No_ , Sam, not gonna happen, not ever, okay? Fuck, you said it back in the car: we do stupid shit for each other, always have. You losing your marbles ain't gonna change that. Got it?" 

"I hate to hurry you boys along," Death says, "but I'm on a bit of a tight schedule. Sam. Do you want your soul back?" 

Sam gives Dean one of those robotic parodies of a smile, turns to Death. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I think I do." 

"And do you want a wall or do you want your memories?" Death asks. 

"My memories, please," Sam says. 

Death gives Sam a smile and says, "Lie down, then, and close your eyes. This is going to hurt quite a bit." 

//

As soon as Sam's soul touches his lips, he starts screaming. He doesn't stop until well after his throat's gone hoarse and he's spitting up blood. 

//

Dean drives to the witch's house, Sam unconscious in the back seat. It's been two days since Sam's been re-souled; he hasn't woken up, hasn't hardly moved. Dean's actually on his way to Bobby's, figures he could use the moral support -- and maybe the panic room -- while he waits to find out if his brother's ever going to wake up again, much less wake up sane, but the witch is on the way. Sam will want the elixir and it might make things easier on everyone if Dean doses Sam while Sam's unconscious. Sam might not feel the pain as much, she'll wake up with the right body, which may help her mental state, and as much as Dean loves Sam in any and every form, he wants to wrap his arms around his sister and hold her tight, rock her in his lap, feel like he can keep her safe from anything and everything the world can throw at them. It's harder to do that when Sam's four inches taller than him and a brick shithouse as well -- not that Dean wouldn't try, god knows he would. Sam -- his Sam -- just -- doesn't really like to be touched anymore, not when he's male.

He locks Sam in the car, goes up to the witch's door by himself, knocks and misses the door opening because he's looking back at the Impala. 

"Dean," she says. "Is it -- what's happened?" 

"Sam's got a soul," Dean says, turning to face her, keeping a cautious distance. "You said you'd do the spell?" 

She narrows her eyes, looks over Dean's shoulder. "Is she in the car?" Dean looks at her as if to say 'you can't tell?' and she says, "You have that thing warded from here to Jerusalem, Dean Winchester. Is she in the car?" 

"Yeah," Dean says. "She's -- sleeping. In the back." 

"Unconscious, you mean," the witch says, and sweeps past Dean, down the walk, to peer in the back window. When she turns around, starts walking back to the house, she has tears in her eyes. "It's upstairs," she tells Dean. "Let me get it for you." 

Dean reaches out, grabs her elbow, touches the witch voluntarily for the first time ever. "What?" he asks, low, forceful. "What did you see?" 

She gives Dean a tremulous smile. Some of the tears break free, run streaming down her cheeks. "She loves you very much, Dean," the witch says. "She's fighting so hard to get back to you."

He lets go of her and she disappears inside. Dean waits until he can't hear her anymore and mutters, "No shit she loves me," but inside, something is singing, fierce and loud and clear and full of joy.

\--

She comes back not five minutes later, carrying a small box. She hands it over to Dean and the two of them look at the car for a silent moment before she says, "Swing by the next time you're in the area, Dean. I'd like to see her again." 

"Yeah," Dean says. "We will." 

//

They stop at a rest area off I-74. It's too late for families and too early for truckers; Dean double-checks they're alone before he pours the elixir into Sam's mouth, massaging Sam's throat to get him to swallow. He holds Sam tight for the five minutes it takes the spell to work its way through Sam's body but at the end, when Sam's breathing settles back to normal and Dean's eyes are still red but finally dry, Sam's a she again -- and she has her tattoos. 

//

Bobby opens the door, stares at the sight of Dean holding a very female Sam in a fireman's carry. 

"Hi," Dean says. "Anything in your panic room right now?" 

Bobby stares a little more, finally says, "...No?" and moves to the side. "Is that -- kid, I have a hell of a lot of questions right now." 

Dean moves past Bobby, heading for the basement. "I got answers," he calls over his shoulder. "Lemme get Sam settled first."

\--

"You have got to be two of the most thick-headed, stupid, ridiculous, idiotic, dumbass, brainless, _stupid_ \--"

"You said that one already," Dean says, interrupting Bobby. "And yeah, maybe, but hey, Sam's alive, I'm alive, she has a soul, she's back to normal, now we just gotta wait for her to wake up." 

Bobby snorts. "And the reason we're waiting in the _panic room_ is because she's coming back with demon blood and angel Grace in her freakin' soul and on top of that, she might be completely nuts. Right."

"I dunno," Dean says, thoughtful. "Sam was always kind of funny on pain meds and when she got drunk. Maybe crazy Sam would be like that." 

Dean gets a smack to the back of the head for that as Bobby leaves him in the panic room, heads for the kitchen and mutters under his breath, something about idiots and bourbon and goddamned biscuits and gravy. Dean smiles, can't help it, but when the footsteps from the stairs have turned into creaking above his head, he scoots closer to Sam, takes one of her hands in both of his, rests his forehead on the line of her knuckles. 

"You gotta come back," he tells her. "I don't care how, okay? Just -- come back." 

\--

They move another cot into the panic room along with a whole heap of weapons that need to be cleaned or oiled or sharpened. Dean half-heartedly starts on the pile but all his attention's focused on his sister, on every little movement or sound Sam makes. There aren't that many of them. 

The second day, her right wrist twitches. She doesn't seem to be dehydrated and she's not wetting herself; thank someone for supernatural comas -- at least they don't have to worry about fluids and food and catheters and waste buildup in her blood. 

The third day, when Dean's slumped over the desk, more unconscious than asleep, she makes a noise that has him jerking awake, nearly falling out of the chair. He gets to her side quick, cups her cheek, says, "Sam?" with more hope in his voice than he thought he had left. 

Nothing. 

\--

Days four, five, and six are much the same. Bobby makes Dean eat but otherwise stays upstairs or outside, leaving Dean to keep watch over his sister. Dean's turned his phone off, still hasn't gotten any of their things out of the car, only leaves Sam's side to use the toilet. He hasn't showered in days, hasn't shaved, and he must reek to high heaven and back but he doesn't care. The only thing he cares about is Sam, still unconscious. 

_She loves you very much. There's a price to be paid. She's fighting so hard to get back to you. She needs to travel the path herself._

The words go back and forth in Dean's mind, round and round, to a backdrop of Sam's screams, the wet noise of Sam sputtering up blood. He would have done anything in his power to have saved Sam from this. Fuck, it was his damn fault to begin with. He led Azazel to their mother. He was too late to save Sam. He broke the first seal. He was right there when Sam killed Lilith. He agreed with the stupid plan to use the rings to open the Cage and he just let Sam throw herself right on into it. 

He shouldn't have needed to save Sam from anything. It should've been him in the first place. 

//

Dean's hyper-aware of Sam, every atom of his being attuned to her. Early on day eight, she does something that gets Dean's attention: moves or twitches, something, he's not sure. His eyes snap to her body, hope leaping in his chest for the millionth time, ready to be crushed yet again, but then he sees her eyelids flutter. He stands at the side of the bed, biting his tongue to keep from talking. Her fingers spasm, she swallows and grimaces. One hand lifts to her throat and it looks like it's taking all of her energy to make her arm move. Her fingers settle lightly on her skin, press gently, and the whine that comes out of her mouth snaps the last of Dean's self-restraint. 

"Sweetheart? Are you -- can you hear me, Sam? Do you know who I am?" She opens her mouth and Dean puts one finger across her lips. "Wait, sorry. You probably should let your throat heal. You -- uh. You did a lot of -- it needs some time." 

Sam lifts her left hand, lets her fingertips slide across the tattoo around her right wrist, the one of the phoenix with Dean's name, and then she reaches up, eyes still closed. Dean takes her hand, brings it to his face, and the pain lines around her eyes disappear when her thumb traces his lips. She smiles and cracks one eyelid, slams it closed just as fast. 

"I have," Sam whispers, "the mother of all fucking headaches. God _damn_ it, turn the lights off, Dean." 

"Well, you're still bossy," Dean says. "Sounds like you're gonna be just fine." He picks her up, takes her upstairs to the spare bedroom and gets her settled in a real bed, makes sure the curtains are closed tight and there's no light coming in before he crawls in next to her, curls around her. "Okay?" 

Sam lets out a soft breath, tangles her fingers in Dean's shirt and holds tight. "Eventually," she says.

She doesn't fall asleep for a long time. Neither of them do.


End file.
